r Smit

their vigilance. A desperate, primal surge of adrenaline. The smell of stale fear and my own blood. I just remember running.

amed in protest, until my lungs burned with the last vestiges of ai

eerful, off-key tune. It was a lifeline in the suffocating darkness, pulling m

ears. My hair was matted, my skin a roadmap of bruises and cuts. Dignity was a dista

I saw h

dren, clapped politely. Krystal was by his side, her perfect smile a stark contrast to my ravaged face. They were hos

me new project, to parade around in front of cameras, but not a single penny to save me

orror that had just stumbled into his carefully constructed narrative. And I?

ic died. The spotlights, one by one, swiveled, blinding me, illuminating every sin

charm, went cold. His eyes widened, a flicker of so

al gait. "Heather? What are you doing?" His voice was sharp, l

as escaping hell. I was running to hi

ain, my suffering, my near-death experience-it was all an inconvenience to him. Less importa

im, my arms flailing, my voice a strangled sob. "Derek! Why didn' t

inched. Then, his hands cam

ough ground. The pain was inconsequential. The rejection, in fr

about? Krystal has been negotiating with the kidnappers. We were going to pay the r

rek. My body was a ruin. And he wa

inting at my broken body. "Who would sta

ognition. The boy I had loved. The man I was supposed to marry.

ned impassive. His gaze drifted to the now-disrupted crowd, the

d me away. Away from the lights, away from the cameras, away fro